


Oh Canada, Take me Home

by Petersolacenovak



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: 2p at some point?, Adopted Children, Alternate Universe - High School, America is a Dork (Hetalia), America/England Feels (Hetalia), Anxiety Disorder, BAMF Prussia (Hetalia), Body Dysphoria, Depression, Drunk Texting, Eating Disorders, F/M, France Being France (Hetalia), Genderfluid Character, Idiots in Love, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Minor Canada/France (Hetalia), One-Sided Austria/Hungary (Hetalia), Poor Canada (Hetalia), Poptarts, Slow Burn, Underage Drinking, Underage Kissing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-23
Updated: 2019-01-21
Packaged: 2019-08-28 07:34:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16719079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Petersolacenovak/pseuds/Petersolacenovak
Summary: Arthur Kirkland; a seventeen year old male, who's just moved from England after the death of his parents. Notes: Says Wanker in almost every sentence. Is addicted to tea.Alfred Jones: A sixteen year old male who's denying the fact that he's killing himself every time he acts on his eating disorder. Notes: Keeps losing his glasses. May loose his voice if he does not stop shouting, 'I'm the hero'.And as bad they've got it, nothing compares to the annoyance their families and friends are going to go through, watching them skirt around one another.The eye fucking is seriously gonna get old.





	1. Baiseurs Anglais

**Author's Note:**

> Alistair-Scotland  
> Seamus-Ireland  
> Dylan-Wales  
> Lucille-Monaco
> 
> I think everyone knows who Francis, Arthur, and Peter is.

“Home sweet home.” 

I call bullshit on Alistair’s comment as soon as I take two steps up the driveway. I may have just spent the past two days traveling-spending about seven hours in a tiny cramped van with my imbecilic brothers, and the rest in an airplane from American Airlines with lots of turbulence, leaving the only home I've ever known im my seventeen years of life-but I can still find logic in times of exhaustion.

In fact, even if I was drunk out of my mind, or off my meds, I would still be able to point out the unsafe looking structure in front of me and my siblings. 

The house in front of us is a dark blue with a staircase sticking out of the second floor. Yes, you heard me right, a staircase sticks right of a window (1800’s styled) and then trails off into nothing but the sky. It hovers above what I assume to be the garage and is painted a chipping black. It might be elegant looking if it didn't have so many bloody bird shit stains on it. 

The rest of the house has architecture, surely inspired by the earlier 1800’s, giving it an old England sort of feel (For which I'm somewhat grateful). A tower, reminds me of something out of the medieval ages-looking exactly like that tower, Fiona, from Shrek, was stuck in-but much shorter. In fact, it's a bright white, the only thing not painted either a dark blue or black.

“How the bouncing fuck are we supposed to live ‘ere” I hear my brother, Seamus, ask. His voice is as outraged as I feel and for once I can agree with his cock like stupidity. He's nearly trembling with rage, red hair darting across his forehead in the wind, while his eyes narrow at Alistair and his fists clench into tight balls, scrunching up his leather gloves.

“It's perfectly fine, lad,” Alistair says and I can't help the loud scoff that escapes my throat. He turns and looks at me, a scowl etched into his flesh as his arms cross tightly, “Got somthin to say, dickbag?”

I open my mouth to snap back at him, my shoulders hunching in the need to yell viciously-when a very clearly frustrated voice quips, “Can we please stop swearing in front of Peter?” 

We all roll our eyes at Dylan, my ridiculous brother, who for some reason, cannot get it into his thick skull, that we; the Kirklands, are known far and wide throughout the Europe for our dirty mouths. I even notice Peter hold back a snort-and despite my hate for the child, I almost smirk back, humored by our brother’s incompetence.

“Like that's ever going to happen.” Alistair grumbles and marches back to the car, grabs his two bulky suitcases and begins to walk up to the front door of the house.

“Y-you weren't actually serious about us staying here, were you?” I hear Seamus whine as I stare at Alistair moving forward, back to us four.

Alistair’s hands give a lazy gesture back to us, calling over his shoulder, “I already called Francis before we pulled in, lads. They're probably waiting for us inside, watching through the windows as you all insult their home.”

Our eyes snap over to the windows, paranoia setting in as we do not want to seem like impolite house guests.  
I find nothing but curtains in the window, but continue to keep my guard up. Just in case.

“Come on, now! Do you want to sleep outside tonight?” Alistair yells again.

That gets us moving.

We all grab our bags. 

Mine, a purple backpack, filled to the zipper with books and papers, has a black strap, covered in tiny pins from all over. Several are of the beautiful UK flag, two are of a teacup and teapot, one is supporting the Marine Mammal Center. Towards the bottom there's a Slytherin pin, along with a pin of just a fork. A silver fork. 

My plain red suitcase, is stuffed in the very back of the old van we drove in, full of my clothes and not nearly as large as the one that Seamus pulls out.

When I had asked what was packed inside only four days ago, he had stopped and turned to stare at me with so much irritance, it looked like he was imagining slicing open my throats and beating me with his overly large bag.

But now, as I grab my luggage and try to ignore the snickers of Peter and Seamus as they watch Dylan struggle with lifting his own suitcase out of the back, I realize my Irish brother most likely packed his entire room in an attempt to not have to go through homesickness.

I trudge up the driveway to the house, letting my eyes wander over the neighborhood (And ignoring all of my brothers). 

Trees surround the house ahead. As well as most of the other houses near us. The house to our right, is painted a normal shade of light brown, and even has a flag hanging from their front porch. I recognize it and believe it to be...the German flag? I shrug in my head, making a mental note to look it up later.

The house on the left side of us is nearly as crazy as ours. It's painted a bright red and white with what seems to be several friendly-ish looking garden gnomes in the front lawn. Tomato plants are growing close to the house, and a basket is set on its side near the plants, along with a pair of yellow gloves.

“This neighborhood has the oddest homes.” Dylan whispers in my ear as he walks past me. He's got his bag now and is letting his eyes dart around the odd structures all around us. His long hair is starting to go from a neat ponytail-to a messy and stressed man bun. Perhaps I should tell the others to lay of off him.

“Yeah,” I murmur back, slightly irritated that he's managed to walk so much faster and further than I. He reaches the front step in the next second, waiting patiently beside Alistair, for the door to open.

I take a few more steps, cursing my short legs, and finally reach my two older brothers. They glance at me.

One has a soft smile, stress attempting to hide behind a pair of wire glasses and pale skin. He's checking to make sure that I'm there and alright.

Well, alright in the meaning of ‘not about to lunge at an innocent person or burst into tears’.

The second seems to be irritated that I exist and that I'm within forty feet of him. His face seems to be perpetually in a look of pure rage-or pure amusement when me or my darling brother fuck up. 

He seems to be trying to hide the scowl when he turns back to the door. It's open all the way to reveal a man I very dearly want to slap. 

He's leaning against the doorframe in a seductive way that I hope will quickly end because it's so disgusting. His hair is the only redeemable part of his body. Not because it looks nice-but because it looks soft and fluffy. A violet robe is wrapped around himself, loosely tied so we can all see his bare chest and pair of matching silk violet pajama bottoms. 

It's only five o’clock.

“Bonjour, baiseurs anglais.” The man greets and I immediately raise an eyebrow. 

I'm about to respond, my anger brewing throughout my brain, when I nearly have a heart attack. Peter and Seamus have gotten their bags, locked the car, and made it up to the porch-and are right behind me when the smallest of us all asks, “What did you say?” 

The French man smirks, a finger twirling a strand of golden hair as he replies, “Oh, rien, mon amie. I ‘ave just been so e’sited to see you all again. Iz been years.”

“If yeh missed us so much, you mind letten us in, then, Francis?” Alistair rumbles loudly. It's now when I too, realize how much I want to get inside and set down my heavy bags before collapsing into the guest bed.

“Of course, my rayon de soleil.” Francis simply says, gliding away from the door, robe billowing around him gracefully. We follow. I snicker at his words despite not really liking him. Never have I heard someone dare to call my older brother, Alistair Kirkland, their ‘sunshine’. The last person who flirted with him was our old pizza delivery girl and she ended up getting our front door slammed in her face.

I can see that Seamus and Dylan also understood the different language as they’re both grinning wildly as they teeter along. Peter seems to be trying to remember what French he had learned when he was seven, and still doesn't know what's going on as heads through the entryway.

Alistair is red and seething.

I step around him, feeling his deep angry breaths on my back as I move forward. It's more annoying than it is intimidating, in all honesty.

I don't let him know that.

“So ‘ow ‘ave you been, boys?” Franic's asks as soon as we’re all standing in the lounge, bags dropped into the red carpet, and coats beginning to unzip. The room we’re in is large-much larger than the tiny apartment we owned in Britain. There's a green velvet couch near a giant window, which is covered by a dark marroon  
curtain to match the carpet. The mantle above the fireplace is covered in picture frames and a vase full of red roses. A staircase is a little ways away, winding up the dark purple walls. 

Once me and my brothers stop staring at the lavish room, we begin to process what was asked. And I answer first, mildly annoyed that I've not had the chance to talk much yet. Perhaps too much of my irritation comes out when I say, “We’ve been well, having our mother and father die only four months ago. It's so kind of you to ask, Francis.” 

Sometimes I really hate my big mouth.

The others are staring at me in absolute horror, mouths open and eyes large. Dylan has a shocked hand over his mouth, almost as if he’s mentally yelping, ‘Good heavens’. His eyes meet mine and I...sort of feel a bit bad? 

Perhaps I should work on my bluntness while I'm here.

“Er-and how have you been?” I ask quickly, mind reeling over my own stupidity.

Francis’ mouth opens and closes twice before his natural bright and predatory smile returns, “Fine, mon cher. I do apologize for my eh...stupid question,” He gives me a grin and I scowl back.

He turns to my brothers, who have sat down on the velvet couch (Minus Dylan, who's still staring at me) with their shoulders hunched.

“Would you all like to see the bedrooms you'll be staying in?” He asks, mostly looking to Peter, as the boy looks fidgety on the sofa.

“I-” the boy begins. 

Alistair cuts him off, “Where's Miss. Marie and Lucille?” 

Francis pauses for a moment, his tongue darting out and wetting his lips before he chuckles out, “Lucille is up..eh…” He trails of for a moment before brightening up and saying, “Stairs,” Like he forgot the word in English.

“And Marie?” Seamus frowns.

“She may or may not be on eh...a cruise, at ze moment, touring-”

I feel my ear canals rupture before I even have the chance to cover my ears. Alistair is up on his feet, fists tight once again, and face scrunched up as he yells in Francis’ face, “WHAT THE BLOODY FUCK DO YEH MEAN SHE ISN’T HERE?!?”

“Alistair!” Dylan shrieks and practically jumps over the couch to cover Peter’s ears with his hands. His face looks horrified once again and I have to hold back a snort.

He's swatted away by Peter, but he continues to yell at his older brother, “Al, what did I tell you about-” 

“Marie isn't here, Dylan!” Alistair yells back, “We came ‘ere so I wouldn't have to deal with this shit!”

I roll my eyes, “It's not like you have to really do anything, Al. You can just report to the agency and say we’re living with the bonnefoys and everything's fine.” I wrap my hands around my elbows, shrugging lazily. I look at my oldest brother to see him still scowling.

“Actually, Arthur,” He spits my name out like it's an insult, “I've fucking adopted you and our shit head brothers-which means I'm legally responsible for what happens to you and could end up being sent back to Scotland if one of you dies.” He looks away from me and I have to bite my lip to not...well, I’m certainly not about to cry.

I don't cry. 

He looks over at Francis, who's uncharacteristically shrunk back into a corner of the room, as if trying to disappear. Alistair doesn't seem to care and goes on to say, “If I'm the oldest one here, that means I'm in charge-”

“It's my house, mon Cher.” Francis says and a lazy smirk returns to his face as he crosses his arms.

Alistair stalks over to him, “Do yeh have a job that'll provide enough for seven people to live comfortably?” He asks, leering over the shorter man.

Francis frowns, “Not enough for sept, non.”

Alistair nods, although his face is not satisfied. He looks almost deflated at Francis’ words, like he was hoping the French man would say, ‘Fuck yeah, I'm totally loaded, bro’.

“Then, since I'm the only one who’s actually gotten a stable job…” He frowns and looks over at us, waiting for us to confirm we hadn't applied for anything too.

“I'm off to college in a month, I don't have time for one.” Seamus shrugs.

“Arthur and I are still in school.” Peter says with a nervous smile playing on his lips.

“I am too,” Dylan says softly, “But I could get a job if needed.” His hands have stopped trying to cover Peter’s ears and now rest still in his lap.

“Look for one,” Alistair tells him before moving back to the couch and picking up his bags, “For now, let's all get settled into our rooms. How many are there?” He asks Francis the last part, although he looks right at Seamus as he speaks.

“Trois. Six if you add in Lucille et moi et ma mère,” Francis says, already booking it up the stairs to show us our rooms. 

I sigh under my breath, mentally debating the odds of him trying to strangle us all in our sleep. It's about 50% likely for him to do so, as I haven't actually seen him in person since I was about twelve (I'm seventeen now, if that helps) and don't really know how he's got along or who he is now-and we've basically screamed and insulted him since we got here. I'm starting to really regret never replying to his letters after I turned fourteen. Of course, my parents were close with his mother, and had kept in touch with her, getting regular updates on the Bonnofeys.

As I think this over, we move upstairs, watching one another annoyedly.

“So,” Francis sighs, once we reach the second floor and step out into a wide hallway. He points at the several doors lining the walls, and says, “There are four rooms right ‘ere. The last two are the spare rooms, the first two are mine and Lucille’s.” He nods back to the stairs to let us know that on the floor above us, “Has two more rooms. Ma mère and I.”

“I call this one!” Peter yells and dashes into the second bedroom on the left. 

I can hear him shout out, “THERE’S A WALK IN WARDROBE!” Before the chucklings come from the group around me.

“I'll be in the room upstairs.” Alistair grumbles before marching up the steps. I watch him as he goes, sighing at the impatience in his walk and the tightness in his shoulders, his bag handles being practically turned into ribbons at the force he's holding them at.

“He is stressed, non?” Francis leans into Dylan’s face. The younger male slinks back a bit before replying, “He is technically responsible for four kids...I guess six now.” 

I roll my eyes as Seamus and Francis let out insulted Squawks.

“I'm twenty two years old, yeh cock!” 

“Pardon, but I am the same age as you are, garçon de la mer.” 

I'll let you figure out who said what.

Dylan did not seem to care about their words (Nor my irritated expression) and walked into the other bedroom at the end of the hall.

“His room is the largest,” Francis says, his face melting back into a lazy smirk, “I did already set up another bed in there, so one of you can-”

“Suck it Arthur.” Seamus says before sliding down the hall and into the bedroom he would share with the quietest of us all.

“Hold on-”

“fantastique!” Francis shouts, “You and I will room together, Angleterre! I set up another bed in there, however I did not think Alistair would be such a dick, and assumed one of you would be able to room with him.” He flicks me in the shoulder before grabbing my elbow, “I'll show you to our room! We can catch up, non?”

I don't say anything.

But I don't think I can catch up with him. 

I don't think I want to.


	2. Why tf am I such a fuck?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alfred needs sum luv
> 
> Jesus hell fuck 
> 
> Fuck I can't stop saying fuck
> 
> Fucking hell on a stick

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it's a small chapter, but this is just an intro for Alfred. The chapters will probably get much longer from here on out.

‘The purpose of life is to love and give to others. It's to be happy and to show-’

 _Nope_.

‘Humans have the intense need to start war and prove dominance over others, and show how-’

_Ugh, fuck. Try again._

‘This is stupid’.

Well, that's accurate, right?

My pencil goes back to the paper, erasing everything I've accomplished in the last thirty minutes of class.

It's not a lot.

Seriously, fuck this class.

I've practically burned up all the tiny doodads in my noggin and have got nothing to show for it.

Except this dumb lined paper that's covered in smudge marks and sweat. And tears, but that's not very important so, let's move on to-

I know Mr. Edelstein is above me, lips pinched, eyes narrowed, and nose scrunched up in disdain for me, before he's breathing down my neck.

“How's your paper coming along, Mr. Jones?”

I twist around in my seat, cursing  
how stupidly heavy my dumb thighs are, and respond with an anxious chuckle, “Totally great, sir. I've, like, got everything planned out and I have all these awesome topics I'm gonna cover about how the human agenda works-and I learned all these cool facts about the human brain last night. Didja know that we've got about 100 billion neurons stored up in here?” My finger goes up to my head and I tap twice, “That's crazy, right?” I ask, a bounce starting in my leg and I have to bite my tongue to focus on not letting it shake out of control.

I wait for him to be amazed by my fact.

He doesn't seem amazed.

If he is, he doesn't show it.

“How...informative.” He says.

He doesn't tell it either, it seems.

“Yeah,” I nod anyways, “But I think I'll be fine.”

_Pleasefuckinggod don't ask to look at my paper_

_Plaseeee_

_Ibegofyouchipotlelords_

_Don't don't don't don't don't_

“I'll leave you to it then, Mr. Jones.” He says and I let out a sigh of relief when the scent of lillies and egg salad drifts away from me.

“You better have something written, Alfred.” I hear my deskmate whisper.

His name’s Ludwig Beilschmidt and is the future brother in law of our ‘wonderful’ teacher, Roderich Edelstein. In all honesty, both of them are quite similar.

Both of them are obsessed with rules and deadlines. Both can be giant cucks. I generally dislike both of them, and they both love Mr. Beilschmidt, our awesome anatomy professor. One romantically, and the other brotherly, just to, you know, clarify.

“Of course I do, dude.” My lips push out and I feel my fingers dig tightly into the seat under me.

_Liar_

“I'm almost done.” I add.

_Lie number two_

“I just need to cross a few T’s and dot a few I’s, then I'll be good to go. I'll probably be finished by the time class is over.”

_Someone call me out on my bullshit and help please_

“Alright,” He huffs and rolls his bright blue eyes, “I'll just leave you to it then.” He turns back to his own paper (Which is full to the very bottom and written in handwriting so small I can only make out the words; ‘therefore’ and ‘hypnotism’) and then flips it over to write on the other side.

I seriously, have no idea how he's related to Gilbert. I'm pretty sure they're adopted or something. Like, once upon a time, the Beilschmidts had a whiny albino baby boy and thought after five years of him eating all their mashed carrots and forcing them to spend seventy dollars on diapers every month, they decided to adopt a much more polite baby that was smart enough to do their taxes for them.

At least that's what I think.

“Mr. Jones. Are you working?” I hear future Mr. Beilschmidt frown. No, I can actually hear his lips turn downwards and his eyebrows furrow at my existence.

I glance over my shoulder to see my teacher’s been in the middle of a conversation with my pal, Antonio Fernandez. A totally awesome dude, who-yes, has a smoking problem and may have a crush on a guy who can't stand him-but is also one of my best friends.

Cause I've totally got a bunch o’those.

Heh.

_Stopfuckinglying_

They both look at me. Did they hear any of that?

 _Oh_.

They're waiting for an answer. What was the question again?

“Uh…”

Oh yeah!

“I’m just thinking things over and trying to piece things together.”

Like a puzzle, squeezing together all the tiny broken up pieces inside of me. Every shape is different and is colored with a design to show how I think and feel inside. Most pieces in this puzzle are black and grey, to show the sadness that plagues me within, rotting my soul from the inside out, destroying my tolerance for pain and love, cracking open the tender-

Fuck, I sound like Antonio’s little boy toy when we've got our poetry unit in English.

Before I can think to much in this, my Spanish friend pulls me out of my thoughts, “You alright, amigo? You look like los muertos...and not in a good way.”

I'm not really sure how there could be a good way for that phrase, but I elect to ignore it and laugh back, “I'm fine, Ant.”

_You just keep on going with this bullshit, Al_

Mr. Roderich doesn't seem to believe me, “Antonio is right, Mr. Jones. You look stressed, do you think you need to see the-”

Thank the fucking McDonald gods, the bell rings right as he's about to suggest I go to the nurse’s. I don't wait for him to continue on or even say something like, “Finish that paper this weekend! I want it all handwritten because I'm a dickbag who likes to watch kids suffer!”

...or something like that.

Instead, I throw my backpack over my shoulder, grab the blank paper in front of me, and zip out of the classroom like a freaking rocket.

I shove through the halls, not bothering to apologize when I accidentally knock some tiny Italian exchange student over. He yelps as he goes down, and I can feel the glare of his twin on my back as I book it to the lunch room.

“You dumb American bastard!” He shouts.

How does Antonio like that dick?

I keep up a steady pace until I’m within twenty feet I my table.

Then I trip over a trash can.

You know that moment when you want to crawl into a hole and die, disappearing from life forever? And like, your entire existence means nothing and you hate life?

Yeah, that's exactly what happens as I fall to the floor, emptying the contents of the garbage can all over.

_I'm as disgusting as the trash_

Maybe this is karma for knocking over that tomato child. Maybe I'm just really clumsy. Maybe I'm attracted to the trash cans like a magnet or something.

_Maybe I feel like crying._

“Alfie, are you alright?”

I look up from the floor to see my brother, hand outstretched and waiting for me to get up. He has a kind smile on his face-which I’m grateful for-and his eyes are soft, as if he's trying to tame a lion.

_Oh, he knows what I've been doing_

I take his hand, kicking a handful of spaghetti off of my calf and shoving a fairly large piece of meatloaf away from my nose.

My eyes feel like they're stinging and my throat like it's closing up and everything's all spinning and

_I-I can't breath and where am I right now? Wha-what're-I don't-I_

“Hey, are you okay?”

_No_

My eyes meet little Mattie’s and-Oh, he can see the tears in my eyes. 

“I'm fine, Matpat! The hero’s always okay!” I sing, smiling wider so the tears won't show. My eyes become little crescents for a moment and I can't see his reaction to my words.

“Oh,” Mat mutters.

He can pretend so well some times. Like I'm not so fucking messed up. 

_I don't deserve him._

"Well," He continues, "Um, how about we get some lunch? It's burger day and I know how much you love-”

“Yeah, yeah! Totally! Mind getting mine for me? I'm gonna head over to the table and pick these noodles out of my shoes!” I point down at my filthy sneakers and glance back at him with a shrugging grin.

_Jesus fucking Christ I’m pathetic, do I really need a burger? I'm already so-_

“Uh, okay, yeah I'll-”

Once again, I don't wait for him or myself to finish.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't like writing my boi so sad


	3. Soft Spoken and Sinful

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright there should be only one more chapter for this whole introduction-and then we'll dive right into the drama with the main action chapters.

I've never really been that outgoing or spontaneous, in all honesty. I've always been that ‘stuck in the background’ kind of guy. That kind of guy who you forget is on your team for the spelling bee until he's one of the two people left on your team and is kicking ass and has a bunch of people cheer and see him for the first time-but then is completely forgotten when he misspells the word, ‘gesellschaft’.

I added a ‘t’ on the end of the word and my…

...lovely team member, Kiku Honda, ended up beating the opposing team and became the president of the club.

Not that I'm jealous or anything.

I mean, I did quit the team the next week to prove a point, about how they should have at least acknowledged me or invited me to the group pizza party-but they didn't really notice I left anyways…

“GET OUT OF THE SHOWER!”

Okay, well, my brother noticed.

“Give me a moment, Al.” I call back loudly.

“WHAT?” He yells and I have to pause and turn the water off for him to properly hear me. I guess I wasn't as loud as I thought I was.

“Hold on.” I say and step out, closing the shower curtain behind me. I'm already starting to freeze and shiver as I inch closer towards the bathroom door where a few towels hang on a hook. One’s got the maple leaf printed on it, actually, and looks pretty good for being a bath tow-

“Oh my god! Sorry, dude!”  
  
I stare at the open door, with Alfred standing in the doorway and his eyes looking up at the ceiling as he tries to reach for the door’s handle while not using his eyes.

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING???” I'm shrieking.

If this wasn't in the middle of something so humiliating I'm sure my guidance counselor would love to hear that I've been able to raise my voice louder the normal speaking tone.

It seems to surprise Al too, as he's stopped looking towards the ceiling and making grabbing motions for the door handle, now looking me right in the eyes with an open mouth of surprise.

I dart forward and slam the door shut in his face, nearly slipping in a puddle I must have made when I stepped out. I quickly grab two towels and wrap both around my waist.

Better safe than sorry, eh?

“Sorry, Mattie!” I hear my idiotic brother shout through the door, followed by a pause I awkward silence.

I wait to hear him walking away, craning my neck for the sound of his clunky and loud footsteps. After a moment I grow confused, considering the thought that ‘maybe he left when he was shouting’? Because I can't hear anything at all.

My hand reaches out and clasps the door handle, turning it and opening the door just a crack.

Blue sparkly eyes stare through and I take in a quick breath of surprise.

“Can I come in now?” Alfred asks, pushing the door open and not waiting for an answer, already deciding that his needs come first. He shoves past me, still in his pajamas I realize, as I see the Captain America sleep pants mom got him last Christmas. His shirt is old, yellow, and has the logo of mom’s spa printed on the front from almost two years ago, as the new design is much cleaner and in a dark black, not grey.

His hair is messy and his always standing cowlick is sticking out like a signal that he's Al and I'm Mathew. We may have the same faces, being twins and all, but I have longer hair and dress much more cleanly. I'm also much quieter, but that's not a physical attribute.

He skips over to the bathroom counter pulling out two toothbrushes, and a squished up tube of toothpaste. One is green and the other red.

He hands me the green and I wait for him to hand me the toothpaste-but he's already spreading it onto his own toothbrush.

“I'm sorry for like, barging in on you, bro.” Alfred comments as he runs the brush under water.

I give a light shrug, feeling awkward, “It's fine-” I begin, only to have him cut in, as if I hadn't been talking at all.

“I was in a really big rush, cause momma said we had leave in like five minutes, cause Francis can't pick us up today. He's waiting for his old friends to come from England, so he's gonna help them settle in. Did you know that? I feel like he told us that awhile ago, but I don't know for sure-”

“Can I have the toothpaste?” I cut in softly. Not exactly irritated at his constant rambling, but more bored as I've gone through this for the past 16 years and know that the only way to get him to stop is for him to let it all out.

He hands it to me, making it known that he heard me but doesn't seem to care much as he's going with a toothbrush in his mouth, “An onio ant ive uhh ahide.” He gurgles out, only stopping for a minuet to brush everything in his mouth, when he realizes I can't understand.

I nod, sticking mine in my mouth as he bursts out after spitting, “Antonio can't give us a ride either, is what I was trying to say-he got his car taken away after he crashed into that pole-do you remember that? I do, he came to school with a concussion and was crying a ton. That sucked. But he's gonna meet us at the corner and we can all walk together.”

He grabs a comb, raking through the messy bed head he received overnight, “But anyways, mom told us we had to leave in five minutes like only two minutes ago, so you better go get dressed-and me too, actually!” He lets out a snort and silently nods with a tiny smile after I spit out my toothpaste and rinse.

“Good, good, let's go.” He's out the door by the time I put my toothbrush away, and I scowl. Why did he even need to come in so badly? He didn't take a shower and he literally has a brush in his bedroom. Yes, he had to brush his teeth, but he really could have done that last and I would've been done by-

Oh yeah.

I close the bathroom door one more time, cursing it for not coming with a lock, along with whoever built this horrible house.

I shuffle a bit over to the counter again and grab the clothes I set out earlier, before I had gotten into the shower, slipping them on. The beige and maroon sweater feels soft, but is sticking to me when it touches some undried patches of wet skin. I pull on a pair of boxers and jeans, then my glasses, along with a pair of nice green striped socks with maple leaves printed on them.

Canadian pride.

Yay.

I sling the two dirty towels on the hook once again and make my way out of the bathroom, heading out into the hallway.

We have a simple home, with two floors. The first floor holds a medium sized kitchen and living room, along with an area to eat and a small bathroom. The second floor has the bedrooms and the two large bathrooms. Our mom has the master bedroom (As she deserves it more than us) while Alfred and I share a room with a bunk bed. Mom’s room has the master bath attached to it, while we have to go across the hall in order to take a wee.

It's a very nice life we've made for ourselves though, and we’re all very proud of it.

I head over to the stairs, clambering my way down and hoping that I've given myself enough time to eat breakfast before we've got to take off for he-i mean, school.

I hop off the last step of the staircase and head towards the kitchen. I can see my mother standing with her back to me as she cracks an egg in a pan, scrambling it around with a spatula.

She's wearing dress pants and a blazer, so she's definitely off to work today, her hair neatly brushed and tucked up in a bun.

“Good morning, mom.” I smile in greeting, settling myself beside her and grabbing a cup and pot of coffee she's saved for me.

She turns to me a bit and a large smile overtakes her face, “Heya, honey!” She says and begins to shake some salt onto the cooking eggs as she hands me a bowl and fork. I put a forkful in my mouth and smile at how much it feels like home. I turn next to my coffee and down half of it before glancing at her.

She looks back to frying pan as she goes on to say, “I was gonna wake you up earlier but when I peeked into your room you were already gone and in the bathroom. Luckily I still got to do the wake up song for Al-which he loved, by the way. He has since he was small and just learning how to speak and use his words. You never liked that song when you were a baby though, which is weird cause you were always so quiet when small, but whenever you heard that song you'd start groaning and crying and-”

I began to tune her out after that, deciding I can't deal with both Alfred and my mother’s rambling in the same hour, just focusing on eating my eggs.

I wonder what Francis is doing right now? He's never been the best at attending school on time or showing up to every class. Don't get me wrong, he's a really smart guy, but he doesn't seem to want to use his full potential. And he doesn't have to, when he's got a mom who's got more money flowing in, than our own prime minister.

I do wish he came to school more often than he does though. Every time he skips gym, I have to run around the track all alone, nearly choking on the oxygen seeping into my lungs with no one to distract me. No one else notices me really other than Francis and Alfred-but even then, Alfred is in only one of my classes and at lunch there's a lot of people who sit with us.

There's always Ivan...but he's kinda scary.

“Mattie!” My mother shouts and she's snapping in front of my nose by the time I realize she's asked a question twice.

“Sorry?” I frown.

She wastes no time, continuing on with, “I was asking if you could pick up a pizza on your way home tonight. I'm gonna be going down to Montreal until Sunday, so you and your brother will have to fend for yourselves for just a bit.”

“I can do that.” I nod, although I hide the disappointment I feel. Mom’s been traveling all over the country since Al and I turned eight and she decided to open a chain of spas throughout Canada and the USA. Luckily, two years ago we all stopped and settled down.

I like how it is now.

I just wish she didn't have to go to Montreal every two months to check in on the spa down there.  
  
Mom rambles on again, “Thank you, Mattie pie! I'm sorry about having to head down there so much! It'll only be about seven more months though and then I'll stop going down there and it'll be all fine on it's own. Just like you and your brother. Like from that one movie with the dog who lives on that farm with that chicken and a horse...or was it a donkey? Maybe it was actually a pig…Anyways, so, the duck is all-wait, where'd the duck come from?”

I guess we can all bet who Al got his excessive mumbling from.

Definitely not dad. Dad was very serious all the time and only said what he needed to. I remember one time-

“Momma! Did you make pancakes?!?” Alfred screeches from behind me as he flies off the stairs and into the kitchen.

I but my lip, knowing he had been downstairs already. He would know if she made pancakes now, wouldn't he?

“No, dear,” She answers anyways, “But I made some eggs! Sit down and grab a bowl.”

I look from her and over to him, shaking my head when I notice the forced pout on his lips. I can tell he's trying not to smile by the way his eyes are sparkling brightly. He's dressed in ripped jeans now, along with another superhero T Shirt. This one seems to be the hulk.

“I don't like eggs.” He says like a four year old and I have to bite my lip in order to stop myself from sighing.

“Oh, I'm sorry, darling.” Mom cooes anyways, not noticing his fake expression, “Do you want a bagel? We gotta go now but if you eat it untoasted-”

Alfred snaps his fingers and gives an over the top groan, “There's no point in eating it if it's not toasted with cream cheese.”

I wince and try to look anywhere but his face when I notice the stress that's zooming throughout his temples. His hands are slightly clenched and he's giving a strained smile. I don't understand how mom buys it, only giving him a pat on the back and then briskly turning off the stove and shoving the leftover eggs on the fridge.

She must have taken mine when I wasn't paying attention.

Alfred looks over at me and I wipe my face of pity for him.

Alfred hates Pity, I've learned over the past few years. Unless it's for a specific role.

He's got a lot of those.

“Grab your bags, guys,” Mom's saying and we both break eye contact, seeing that she's pulling on her coat and gloves. Just like her pants and blazer, they're black and look expensive.

Key word in that sentence; look.

We go to TJ Max a lot, getting most of our shopping done cheaply. Unlike our good friend, Francis, we don't have riches upon riches to spend on silk robes and velvet couches we never use. Not that we’re poor or underprivileged, cause we do live in a moderate sized house and our mom sends us to a very nice private school, but most of that comes from Mom’s work and the money Dad sends every month.

Alfred hands me my coat when we reach the front door and I slip it on, almost becoming absorbed in the puffy white thing.

He gives me a smile, “You look like a ‘lil polar bear.”

Mom hears this too and I groan at the two of them giggling like twelve year olds. They don't seem to hear my groan, like usual, so I shake my head and pull on a pair of red gloves, I've had since I was ten.

I look back up when I hear Mom start to explain to Alfred about her being gone for the rest of the week.

“That's okay! It's already Wednesday and-er-Francis can just give us a ride tomorrow with his old friends! If there's no room we’ll just walk again! It's fine, mom.”  
He replies.

Mom's always been more worried about leaving him, as he's the less responsible one.

I've always wondered how he's the oldest. Even though he came out of the womb just a few seconds before me, I've always been the more responsible one.

But he seems to be the one trying to sound relaxed in this scenario, trying to act like the bigger one for mom’s sake.

“I know, and I told Mattie I'd be going, but I didn't tell him exactly how upset I am! It's gonna be Christmas in exactly two weeks and I have no idea how I'm gonna be able to miss the holiday festival this year! What if your friends miss my brownies? What if you both get drawn from the gift raffle and I'm not there to accept your present for you and hug you? What if there's a big snowstorm and the power goes out? Do you two even know how to fix that? Do you even know where the-”

“Mom,” I cut in softly, glancing over at the wall clock behind Al’s head, “I understand you're worried, but Al and I totally got this. We've done this plenty before, and a specific time of year doesn't really matter. Especially since Antonio lives one house down and Francis lives like five minutes away, so we’ll have a ton of people around if we need help. I'm also pretty sure Mr. Beilschmidt and Mr. Edelstein live next to Francis so no craziness will happen there too. Okay?”

She stares at me and I see her lips go tight as she sucks in real hard.

For a scary moment I think she might cry, but then she's smiling brightly and nodding like I just suggested we pick out new curtains or Alfred's told her some dumb knock knock joke or something as simple as that.

“Alright,” I say, tempted to grin, “Then let's go now before we’re late to first period. Mr. Wang won't tolerate another tardy from me.” I mumble the last part, thinking back to last week when the man with the watchful eyes and tight ponytail had yelled at me in front of the whole class for being late. Everyone had forgotten by second period, but for the rest of that forty five minute class I had squirmed with red cheeks and sweaty palms as people snickered and whispered about me.

Apparently when I need to be invisible the most, the universe decides I'm not worthy enough and forces me to suffer.

I guess that's just how Alfred must feel everyday, being such a popular person. People watch his every move. They watch his movements and his actions, they try to see his feelings, most attempting to get in deep so they can cling onto him until the end of high school.

Like we’re all in a race and he's got a sled hooked up to a harness around him, forcing him to pull whoever he's let on and those who have snuck aboard. Now he's gotta carry everyone to the finish line and try to pass all the other racers, who've also gotten sleds hooked up to them. Everyone's jumping from sled to sled in hopes to be carried to the finish line. Because no one wants to actually work for it themselves and all the way.

But Alfred does it. Even if he doesn't want to.

That's why I pity him.

“Mattie, you coming?” I hear Alfred shout and turn to see he's waiting until the doorway of the house while Mom’s holding me in a hug. When did we start hugging?

“Yeah,” I nod back and step out of the hug mom's been suffocating me in without me even knowing.

We both walk you like ducklings, following after Alfred, down the driveway and splitting off. Mom goes over to her car and slides in, waving to us with an over enthusiastic grin, shouting, “Good luck at school, guys! I love you!”

Alfred and I wave back, walking over to the sidewalk and trying not slip on any patches of ice littering the cement.

“Bye mom!” Alfred shouts next to me, looking over his shoulder.

I follow after him with, “I love you!” In a voice that's barely considered above a normal speaking voice.

Mom seems to hear me fine though and gives us another wave and a thousand air kisses before pulling out and speeding down the road in the opposite direction of where Al and I've gotta go.

“I hope she remembered her cell phone charger for once.” Alfred snarks as we begin to walk down the sidewalk, side by side and backpacks weighing us down until we're hunchbacks.

“She's got like ten of them from having to buy so many on her trips.” He jokes on and I give a chuckle to show I agree with how humorous it is.

“You've stolen like five of them.” I point out with a sicker and he gives me a pout, once again looking like a six year old.

It's like he doesn't know how to age.

“That just because all of mine get stolen by our asswhole friends.” He replies and I have to jump over an icy puddle to keep up. Although my hassle doesn't seem to be worth anything because we've walked past out neighbor and are now in front of Antonio’s house.

“Speak of the good looking devil.” Alfred cackles as we peer into the yard to see the boy waiting on the front porch with a book in his hand and a cheerful grin on his lips.

He's always in a good mood.

It can be concerning at times.

“Has llegado tarde idiota americano!” He's yelling, but all in a friendly tone of voice. But I am pretty sure he's just called Alfred a stupid American and not even noticed my presence.

I guess he just has a positive sort of vibe at all times. Even if he's actually insulting people.

Huh.

“We are not late, asshole.” Alfred snarks back.

I keep on forgetting he can understand Spanish more than I, with hanging out with Antonio so much.

I can understand I few words here and there, but Alfred’s getting really good at it. I'm pretty sure Spanish is the only class he can get above a b in.

Too bad when it comes to actually saying Spanish words he sounds awful. Like he's a two year old learning how to make words with their tongue.

Funny, how I keep on comparing him to a toddler.

Maybe he really is one.

“You were supposed to be here cinco minutos ago, Alfie.” The taller and more tan boy is complaining to my brother and I perk up when he says, “I assume that Mattie is the one who got you out of the house?”

I raise my chin just a bit higher, happy to feel some sort of praise, even if it's not really true.

Alfred decides to not let me have the win.

“I'm the one who told we had to go!” He growls, jogging to keep up with Antonio, who's started to walk down the sidewalk in an attempt to actually not be late. Alfred quickly catches up and begins to bicker with him, shoulder to shoulder.

I'll just walk behind them then.

But that's fine. I like hearing my brother's happy and talking with someone who can hold a long and real convorsation.

As long as he's okay, I'm okay.

 

 

Right?

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can anyone guess the theme I have with these chapter titles lol


	4. I Am not an Asshole

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's short because finals are happening right now and I just really wanted to post something today! I how to write some more this weekend! ;)

I am not an asshole. I speak my mind, and I let people know what I'm feeling, when I feel it. If it's anger, people will know  
by my everything. If it's happiness, people will know my wolf-like grins. If it's the rare occurrence of fear, I'll tell people what’s wrong and they'll be too intimidated to really laugh back. If it's sadness, I’ll cry.

But, I am not an asshole.

I just have an extreme case of brutal honesty and can't help it when cruel words spill over my tongue. If I offend anyone while I talk? That's not my fault. That's their fault for talking to me or being in my general vicinity.

Maybe that's why, in this exact moment, I'm in an irritating conversation. with little Dylan while he makes everyone’s lunches for school, and I'm red faced while accidentally smashing a slice of toast in my fist.

“Look,” The soft spoken asswhole is saying, “I'm worried about how Peter is going to adjust to this new school. It's already half way through the year and he's missed so much work-not to mention he's gone through...a lot of stuff for being so young. Boys his age are worrying about girls they like, or chess club, or finishing their lego Harry Potter Hogwarts castle-”

I'm staring at him, unable to come up with a reason for why he's actually still talking and wondering how I'm related to this freak.

“And he didn't get to continue on with his piano lessons because every instructor i've researched that is in a thirty mile radius-either has some sort of sexual misconduct on their record or doesn’t work with kids under 15! How is he-”

I can't take his continuous talking anymore and bark out, “What the fuck do yeh want meh to do abou’ this? I can't do anythin, yeh neon dildo, so shut it or talk abou’ something I can respond to.” I open my fist after being able to expel my words and let the bread crumbs fall onto the counter in front of me.

When I look up, I see my younger brother is staring down at a banana like he's wanting it to fuck him.

Oh god, maybe I broke him.

“I shouldn't be complaining,” He says after a second and continues on with making the lunches, “I’m sorry, Ali,” I flinch at the nickname, “I'm just really worried about everyone. I want to be there as much I can, because I know how hard this must be for them and-”

“What the fuck?” I spit out, almost biting my tongue as I think over what he's just said. ‘How hard this must be for everyone else’? Like he hasn't just experienced the loss of our parents and forced to move to bloody Canada himself? Like he's a family friend and not actually one of us? Like his pain is less than ours?

“What?” He frowns, tilting his head to the side slightly, causing his hair to tumble out from behind his ear and hang in front of his neck.

“You're literally-jus’-I can't-” I don't know what I can say to this honestly. What do you say to something like that? Why does my little brother have such little care for himself when it comes to taking care of us? He's always been the most responsible, I know, but seriously? What do I say now?

I settle on something stupid “. ..Can I have that banana?”

I punch myself in the gut mentally as he hands to over, face looking a little bit more down and dejected than before.

Maybe he's dying.

“Francis is driving yeh and the rest of them to school later,” I say after a moment of hesitation-because who knows what the fuck is going on inside his head, and I really don't wanna see him break into tears or something, “Be ready by then,” I go on, “And make sure everyone else is up. I've gotta get teh work in a bit.” I sink my teeth into my bottom lip, carefully using me nails to rip open the top of the banana peel, keeping eyes on it, instead of my little brother.

I can feel his eyes on me, nonetheless, as he replies with an awkward kind of chuckle, “Uh, yeah! Um, good luck at your new job, Ali,” I squeeze the peel too tight, “I should probably go get the others up now, He goes on, “Unless you wanna talk some more?”

I look up at that, unable to wipe away the look of surprise that I've been told can be very similar to disgust. He's looking at me with a mix of hope and anxiety, only for it to turn into embarrassment when he sees my face.

“Okay! I-I'll just go and get them all up and-er-sorry about that-um…” He doesn't finish, shooting up the stairs and away from me.

This banana tastes too ripe.

Maybe I am an asshole sometimes.


	5. The nordics and the Italians

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've seriously never written a fix with such short chapters, but here you go.

“Mamá! Nosotros vamos!” I'm calling as I reach for the hand of my big brother and let the front door to our house swing shut with a soft click. 

“We’re going to be late, you idiota. Come on,” He says and smacks away my hand with love, “If we miss the bus because you had to put on your dumb face cream-I'm going to make you carry me to school.” 

That threat alone makes me walk faster and I nervously ramble out, “So what's on your agenda today, fratello?”

My brother shrugs annoyedly, “The same things as usual, Feli. It doesn't change every day.” 

I shrug off his glare and respond, “Some days I have 2-D Art and then the next day I have Advanced Culinary Arts as well as French everyday. You know? So what electives do you have? I forgot.” I flash a guilty smile and he shakes his head at me-still replying,

“Construction 101. I'm in your French class also, Feli, do you not pay attention as well as remember?” 

I shrug again, “Of course I do. I just...wanted to hear...you say it.” I try to choose my words carefully so he know I just love him. 

Apparently it doesn't work. 

Romano scowls and readjusts the strap of his backpack in his shoulder so it doesn't dig into his skin so much. 

“So are you excited for winter break?” I ask and ignore his hard stare.

“I guess.” He grunts.

My head bobs up and down and the scarf, I put on before leaving, tickles my chin. My smile returns at this, because I'm very ticklish, and I say, “I'm so excited to just relax and not deal with all the stress and work of school! It's going to just be two straight weeks of sleep and cartoons and pasta!” I sigh contently.

We trudge on through the snow for a minute more and I feel all jittery at neither of us talking. Maybe I should say-

“I'm looking forward to that too.” Romano mumbles, a little grin on his lips. It's small, but I can see it.

“Maravilloso! We can watch Steven universe together and-”

“We will cross that bridge when we get to it, Feli. I mean, I may not have a lot of time to spend with you this break.” He cuts me off in his always irritated voice. 

I can't say I'm not a little hurt.

“Fratello! You're not going to spend break with me and Mamá and Papi and Abuela and Abuelo and prima Laura and Sylvia and primo Charlie, Jaquez, Grey-”

“Feli!” Romano yells and I stop, my cheeks getting a bit warm from my ramble. “I'm going to spend Christmas with everyone,” He frowns, “I'm just going to be hanging out with someone a little over break. Calm down, you freak.”

“Who?” I'm already asking and jumping on his arm, holding it as I wait for his reply.

He shakes me off-no, tries to shake me off and gives up after seeing my intense expression-and then he says, “None of your business.” In the most grouchy and embarrassed tone I've ever heard him use.

“Oh Dios mío!” I exclaim, “You and that senior? That Spanish boy who's been staring at you since the day we got here?”

He's glaring holes into my face right now, but I don't seem to care and press on, “What's his name? He hangs out with Alfred Jones and Francis Frenchfry a lot. And Gilbert sometimes,” I catch the confused look Romano sends me through his scowl, so I explain, “Ludwig says I should call him that when I'm over at their house, so it isn't so...weird.”

“Stupid potato bastard.” Romano whispers under his breath and I have to laugh.

His frown doesn't shut me up and I continue to ask, “So, what's his name? The one who was held back for two years? Arnold? No...Anthony? Um-Gary? Or-”

“It's Antonio, idiot.” Romano corrects me.

I smile silently, his own glare deepening as he realizes he speedily gave in to my questions.

“Antonio.” I repeat before bursting into song, “Romano and Antonio sitting in a tree! K-I-S-I-N-N-G-”

“That's not even how you spell ‘kissing’, moron.” He snaps and smacks the back of my head.

I laugh, swinging my feet a little more happily, “You're so in love with him!” I continue to sing, “You two are gonna go to prom together and then graduate and move into an apartment and get married and have me as your best man!”

I can feel his seething breaths but go on,m to ask, “If you guys have a baby, can you name it Feliciano jr?”

“SHUT UP!” 

We go back and forth, lovingly joking with one another, him slapping the back of my head after I ask to be Feli jr’s godfather, until we meet the bus stop.

I greet the other two kids already waiting there with a large smile and a wave.

They're both wrapped in winter coats and scarfs to combat the cold weather of our tiny town. They both sit on the bench, leaning in to one another, so I assume they're lovers. One is tall, blonde, and stoic looking, almost reminding me of Ludwig, but not quite as handsome. The smaller one is around my size, but pale and blonde. He seems the friendlier of the two.

“Siellä,” he smiles, proving my theory, “Mitä kuuluu?”

Now, I'm not the best with languages. I just recently ‘perfected’ my English and just started learning French. And that's only because I've a got some cousins who are French and bullied me into learning it. 

So I'm not totally, one hundred percent sure, what this Scandinavian sounding boy just said. 

I guess I'll just roll with it.

“I am-”

“What the fuck was that?” Romano spits and I'm trying not to sigh now.

That's not how we make friends, fratello.

The taller of the two begins to stand threateningly, his eyes narrowed through his glasses as he looks at us-almost bitterly, but the smaller one puts a hand on his thigh to stop him from getting up.

“Sorry,” The calmer one smiles, “We’re both not native here. I guess I just forgot which country we’re in.” He gives a chuckle and I end up joining in.

He seems very nice.

“It's alright,” I grin, “Neither are we! Romano and I moved here just three years ago, from Italy. When did you both?”

“We got here two days ago, actually! We’re ‘the exchanged students from the Nordic countries’, as our host said. He ditched us for some girl named Laura. Oh-wait! How rude of me! We haven't introduced ourselves! I am Tino Väinämöinen.” The boy finishes with a polite smile, his eyes slightly crinkled.

“I'm Feliciano.” I grin back, holding an arm out to shake. When Tino does grab it I shake a little too vigorously.

When our hands are back at our sides I glance at my brother to see if he'll introduce himself.

He seems to be pouting a few feet behind us.

“This is my brother, Romano,” I say to the Nordic students, “He's usually grumpy looking...and sounding...but he's extremely loving and I think, a bit shy, so he isn't very good at first impressions.”

I hear an outraged squad from behind me, letting me know he's listening in.

I do start to feel a bit anxious over the fact that I must introduce my brother, wondering if the transfer kids find us weird-but it seems they are the same, as Tino is looking at his friend expectantly after I introduce my brother.

He sighs, giving up when his hard looking friend looks over at a slush covered spot in the ground, ignoring him.

“This is Berwald,” Tino gestures at his friend, “He doesn't know a lot of English, so he won't talk a lot. Although He does like to say I'm-”

“My wife.” Berwald finishes, bit bothering to look back at us, but gently taking Tino’s hand in his.

While Tino tries to stumble out a few words and stop his face from turning cherry red, Romano steps closer to ask,

“Where exactly are you guys from? One of you danish?”

“No,” Tino responds and Romano frowns, 

“Though, we do have a danish friend, Mathias, who is engaged to get married over spring break with my brother, Lukas. I've also got a brother named Emil who spent two years of his life at boarding school in Iceland. But Berwald and I both live in Sweden with our families. I used to live in Norway and Finland before now though. They were very lovely countries. I really like Finland.”

His voice almost becomes wistful as he talks, and with that, I'm glad the bus pulls up to take us to school. Even if Mr. Wang is a terrifyingly strict man and he's my first class of the day.

“Can you not say ‘hi’ to everyone we come across?” Romano scowls as soon as we've taken our seats (Which are in the very back, after my brother’s instance to be antisocial). The two nordics sit in the very first row, waving to us from the front.

“Why would I do that?” I chuckle, baffled at his irritance, “They were both so nice, fratello! If we hadn't said hi, we may have never started a conversation and become great friends!”

“You're such a weirdo.” He grumbles, shifting onto his side to stare out the window, broodingly. The curl on the side of his head bobs up and down as he moves.

“But you love me.” I say, pointing a finger at him to get my fact across better.

He only grumbles louder and puts his backpack between us.

I love my brother.

**Author's Note:**

> Are the different languages written okay???


End file.
